


Sea Silk Under Your Skin

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: Marvel (House of M), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Erik Lehnsherr, Dubious Consentacles, Erik Lehnsherr Cries His Way Through Sex, House of M - Secret Wars (2015), M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Royalty, Smut, Tentacle Sex, Vulgar Trash, bannedtogetherbingo2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: King Magnus Lehnsherr of the Monarchy of M visits Atlantis to negotiate the terms of Prince Pietro's marriage to Namor, Ruler of Beneath The Waves. The night he spends in the royal guest bedroom brings a curious visitor.Also, Atlantean beds areweird.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Namor the Sub-Mariner
Comments: 23
Kudos: 24
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020, Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Sea Silk Under Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Bless the person who made Dubious Consentacles a canonical AO3 tag. 
> 
> This is my fill for the BannedTogetherBingo2020 prompt "Vulgar Trash". I hope tentacle sex with, like, no context at all is trashy and vulgar enough (it certainly is in my eyes oops). 
> 
> All my thanks to my awesome beta [IreneADonovan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan) and all the terrible, _terrible_ enablers on the [X-Men X-Traordinaire discord server](https://discord.gg/wqkPMEr) 💖

King Magnus of the Monarchy of M woke to Namor, Ruler of Atlantis, standing still and dark by his bedside.

Magnus grunted, hoisted himself up on his elbows under the heavily brocaded covers of Atlantis’ royal guest room. His eyes had barely adjusted to the blue-green twilight of the room, so far below the surface of the ocean, and still, Namor’s pale figure stood out to him like a lighthouse. “Were you… watching me sleep?”

“I am the King of Atlantis. If I take the time to observe another at rest...” A smile, thin and bendable as an eel, slithered onto Namor’s lips. “Well, then it is only to wonder if you don’t have something _better_ to do.”

“Better?” Magnus raised an eyebrow. “I am here on a diplomatic mission, to negotiate the terms of your asking for my son’s hand in marriage. And since you’re not exactly easy-going, I need to conserve my strength.”

“Pietro will be well here by my side, as my consort and connection to the House of M. The virtues of an Atlantean lover are many, _especially_ when I am said lover. There is no man capable of pleasuring more satisfyingly than me.” The King of Atlantis sat down on Magnus’ mattress in one fluid, graceful movement. One of his hands, finely manicured but bare of any embellishing jewelry, came to squeeze Magnus’ thigh beneath the silk-and-velvet duvet.

It had landed very, _very_ close to the juncture of his crotch.

“Ah. And you’re telling me this because…?” Magnus tried very hard not to think about that hand by his crotch. Or the fact that Namor had chosen to seek him out clothed only in his less formal attire – and by ‘less formal’, he meant that the Atlantean was wearing a pair of his awfully green trunks and not much more.

“Since you’re the future consort’s King father, I thought you would like a demonstration of my skills.” Namor’s smile widened into a superior grin. His hand slid North.

It was definitely palming Magnus’ crotch now. The Ruler of Atlantis was _actually_ propositioning him, bei Gott.

Then again, Magnus had always felt that Namor eyed him with a little bit too much open interest every time they met for it to be mere curiosity.

“Why would I even think of accepting such a mad overture?” Magnus hissed. “It would be blatant disrespect to my son’s honor – to let his future spouse cheat on him with his own father!”

“It’s not cheating,” Namor murmured, “if we’re not even betrothed yet.”

Then he very effectively cut off each and every one of Magnus’ possible protests by leaning forward and capturing his lips in an unrelenting kiss that left absolutely no room for argument.

When Magnus tried to draw away, Namor’s hand – the one which _wasn’t_ slipping between his legs – shot up and gripped his ash-white hair, and when that made him part his lips and hiss with the pain of being restrained, Namor’s tongue forced its way in his mouth, merciless. He tasted like mint and finery and maybe just a tang like saltwater.

In that moment, Magnus could have called the brazen bed frame to slip around Namor’s wrists and throat and tear him away. He could have summoned the silvern paper-knife on the coral escritoire across the room and driven it through the Atlanean’s back into his heart. Even if he hadn’t possessed the awesome power to shape and bend metal to his will, he could have strangled the audacious man with a garrote ripped from the linen bedding.

Instead, he relaxed, slackened his jaw, let Namor plunder his mouth with a skill even he had to admit the Atlantean had so obviously perfected.

To his shame, he almost moaned when Namor drew away at last.

“I see you are willing to cooperate,” the Ruler of Atlantis said, not in the least out of breath – quite unlike Magnus, if he was to be honest. “You chose well to do so. To refuse my generous offer would have been to commit an unspeakable offense against me and my kingdom.”

“Is that so?” was all Magnus could think of responding. His head was swimming.

He had not been kissed like that in years.

“Yes. Now make way.”

While Namor was very much bare safe for the flimsy piece of fabric over his lower regions posing as a costume, Magnus had taken advantage of the guest bedroom’s wardrobe and donned a plain but decent pair of pajama bottoms as well as a jacket, of smooth, silken fabric finer than he had ever encountered on solid ground.

Apparently, Namor much more preferred him without any of that.

Magnus let himself be shoved aside so that Namor could climb on the mattress beside him and then straddle his waist, but he drew the line at being manhandled out of his nightclothes. “Gentle,” he growled at Namor’s greedy fingers, and when the Atlantean wouldn’t listen, he grasped his wrists in a bruising grip. “I said _gentle_. You wouldn’t want to rip something.”

Namor leaned back on his haunches. There it was again, that smile broadcasting his unabashed feeling of superiority.

“As a surface dweller, you probably think this fabric to be infinitely precious,” he voiced Magnus’ thoughts and tugged at a corner of his sleeve. “And it is. My people obtain its rawest form by scraping the mooring from certain seashells in hours of endless, tedious work, and then they twist it into flimsy strands until their fingers bleed, and with their blood tinting the waters crimson, they weave and cut and sew for days until the pieces you are wearing have been brought to completion. But they are my people, my workers, my subject. And as the righteous Ruler of Atlantis, it is my right to do whatever my heart desires with what they _owe_ me.”

There was so much wrong about this. The duty of a king was not to let his subjects serve him, but for him to serve his subjects and only act in their best interest.

However, it was obvious to Magnus that such protest would have been lost on Namor’s ears.

“If you say so,” he grunted, and no sooner had he said it than Namor’s hands were upon him once more, undoing the myriads of buttons on his pajama jackets, pulling it from his shoulders, carelessly flinging it aside.

The bed creaked when Namor moved to kneel between Magnus’ legs and got to work on his pants. Magnus thought this odd. The bed had not creaked this loudly before.

He was distracted by the Ruler of Atlantis shucking him out of his pajama bottoms entirely, and then he was lying well and truly bare on the mattress before Namor’s scrutinizing gaze.

He did not blush. He did not blink. He did not utter a word.

There were scars to be found on every part of his body, he knew. He also knew that ruling had softened him, had replaced hard-earned muscle with smooth, bland plains of flesh.

Still, he was not ashamed of how life had shaped him. Of how he had shaped himself – and his fate.

“Well?” he prompted, since Namor’s silence was beginning to grow uncomfortable after all.

“Well,” said the Atlantean, his hands slithering up to grip Magnus’ thighs tightly, making heat stir in his belly, “you surface dwellers are a species unto yourselves – often foolish and nonsensical. But when it comes to giving and taking pleasure, you’re not the worst.”

Magnus turned his head when something wet and cold touched his cheek.

He shrank back just as fast. “That is–”

“A tentacle. Yes.” Namor’s smile took on a sardonic note. “I always thought it was far too tedious to prepare with my own fingers a man I’m about to take. And since I slew that gigantic kraken, my scientists have had much time to experiment with marine life as well as my aquatic telepathy.”

Before the real meaning of Namor’s words had even registered in his head, Magnus found his wrists and ankles firmly entrapped, each in a tentacle’s unforgiving strangle-hold. They must have shot out from under the mattress, somehow connected to the bed frame and a system maintaining their physical integrity, now that they had been separated from their rightful owner.

Magnus cursed and tugged, desperately searching a way to claw at his restraints, let them release him. Already, there was another one wiggling forth by his head, snaking around his neck, over his lips.

He stilled when Namor’s laugh reverberated around the room.

“This is not an attempt on your life, King Magnus,” the Atlantean chided, as though it needed clarifying – which, in Magnus’ opinion, it honestly did. “I am merely seeking to afford you the most pleasure on _your_ part with the least inconvenience on _my_ part. Please, don’t wind yourself up. It will hurt far less.”

Magnus pointedly ignored a sixth tentacle sliding over his hip, over the sensitive skin of the juncture between his thigh and his crotch. He was not _unwound_ at all.

“What, did you _afford_ my diplomat Emma Frost the same _courtesy_ when she came round to bring you Sebastian Shaw’s head on a silver platter and take your marriage proposal to my son?” he grunted.

“Not quite. In fact, since she is a fellow telepath, it was rather the other way around.”

Magnus floundered. If Namor had trusted _Emma_ of all people with this – honestly rather dubious – device he had conjured up…

“Go on then,” he finally conceded. “But if I get so much as a scratch, you know I will rip Atlantis from its moorings and find an ironclad reason to justify my actions.”

“Fair enough.” Namor grinned and took his sweet time shimmying out of his swim shorts, every now and then shooting a dismissive glance at Magnus rock-hard and leaking between his legs, unable to do anything about it as he strained against the tentacles. “As long as you try not to scream Xavier’s name too loudly. It would rather hurt my feelings to see a dead man take credit for my actions.”

Magnus gaped at that accusation, and then he didn’t gape anymore because Namor leaned down and segued effortlessly into a kiss.

The tentacles’ grip was wet and surprisingly firm around his limbs when Magnus tested it once more, and getting his nails or teeth on them would prove to be difficult. It seemed the Ruler of Atlantis had had rather enough time to perfect his mastery of their control.

Then, Namor drew back, licking his lips like he was chasing Magnus’ aftertaste, and he could feel his legs being forcefully spread open – vulnerable, utterly bare. He stifled a shuddering breath.

The Atlantean muttered into his ear, “Worry not. My skills of pleasuring in the most satisfying and breath-taking way have never disappointed before, and they will not now.”

Magnus would have nodded his assent, had his jaw not been caught in a tentacle’s stranglehold. He moaned instead.

Something was slithering between his legs; something slick, something cool; something cruel.

Namor smiled and pinched Magnus’ nipple, ripped a gasp from his throat against all self-control he found he was starting to lack, and then the tip of the tentacle was slipping past his sphincter, pushing home–

Namor’s lips returned to his, and Magnus cried out into the kiss.

  
  


Half an hour later, Magnus had to admit even to himself that he could take it no more.

The pillow beneath his head was damp – if from sweat or from his tears, he could not possibly know for certain. The linens were soaked also, and his limbs had long since started to shake and ache in the firm grip of Namor’s tentacles.

Never before in his life had he felt so full.

“The great King Magnus, ruler of mutantdom, quivering and mewling beneath my touch.” Namor’s breath ghosted against his collarbone, and then the Atlantean’s tongue was lapping his skin, savoring the salty taste of Magnus’ despair. “Will you beg for mercy yet?”

“Never,” Magnus spat out from between gritted teeth, and then he found he was moaning helplessly as the three tentacles inside him curled, sent sparks of violent pleasure-pain into his gut, up his spine. His vision was going blurry. Shame flushing his cheeks and chest crimson, he let Namor kiss the wetness from his cheeks.

“The night is long and endless still. Dawn is far, and so is the moment I will tire from playing this game with you, King Magnus,” the Atlantean murmured.

Gasping, heaving, Magnus tried to buck his hips, get just a fraction of blessed friction. He couldn’t. A tentacle had wrapped around the base of his cock, and there were countless others relentlessly snaking around his thighs, his hips, over his torso – inside him. He was well and truly trapped.

“Or maybe I _will_ tire. Maybe your pathetic whimpering will bore me, until I decide to employ my precious time otherwise.” Namor’s smile was a glinting sickle blade in the dark as he nodded across the room. “There is enough ink and papyrus in this desk to write a few important dispatches while I leave you bound and gagged, mind screaming for release until the sun shall send its first rays of light down into the depths of my kingdom.”

Magnus took one long, shuddering breath. Then, he whispered, “Please.”

“What was that? I think the sea is growing a little restless, battering against the windowpane.”

“ _Please_ ,” sobbed Magnus, and this time, Namor grinned.

“I see. What is it you demand so demurely?” The Atlantean’s hands were broad and calloused against Magnus’ chest.

“Please–” Magnus cried out when one of the tentacles wriggled inside of him, pressed up against his sweet spot– “please, I need to come!”

He had barely said the words when Namor’s hand slid between his legs and began to stroke his cock obligingly. The tentacle’s hold softened.

“Not so dignified after all,” Namor hissed, and there was triumph dripping from his every word. “Considering this is all it took to make you beg.”

Magnus was barely listening. Those warm, strong fingers on his shaft, the deep aching stretch of the tentacles writhing inside him – it had been far too many years since he had last been touched in such a way. Even though Namor’s rough, merciless, almost brutal touches were oh-so different from Charles’ caresses.

He keened lowly when Namor drew back. Another tear spilled forth.

“My turn,” said the ruler of Atlantis, and then the tentacles drew out as well, leaving Magnus gaping and open once more. It hurt, and his cries would have woken the whole keep, had it not been for Namor’s hand over his mouth.

“The substance coating my playthings,” Namor told him while he smeared his – frankly not as impressive as Magnus’ – length with precome, “possesses muscle-relaxant properties. However, it does not numb, and so you may enjoy the glory of being fucked by me in all its uncorrupted intensity.”

Magnus never got a chance to even so much as think of a response.

The tentacles contracted, and suddenly he was flipped on his front, bum in the air, his shout of surprise muffled by the tear-stained pillow. And then, Namor was driving into him, setting a relentless pace. No use in grappling for purchase on the linens, in trying to keep his knees from sliding, his body from rocking forward with every thrust. The tentacles were keeping his arms firmly tied to his back.

He should have protested at such rough treatment. Should have demanded not to be taken from behind, like some common whore.

But Namor’s hand was back on his cock, palming, stroking, and all Magnus could feel and shout and _think_ was pleasure. Pure, searing pleasure-pain, white-hot as the sun burning lonely and alone in the dark of space – until his senses gave out and he at last succumbed to the darkness, too.

  
  


There was no way to determine how many times Namor had him that night.

Sometimes, Magnus would wake – heavy-lidded, tongue heavy and dry so he could not utter a sound – only to discover the Ruler of Atlantis sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at his body tangled in the sweat-and-cum-stained sheets with lust so great it drew the breath from Magnus’ lungs.

Then, when he had fallen back asleep, he would be tormented by dreams in which bursts of pleasure took him apart, made him moan and keen and sob. Sometimes, he recalled memories; Charles Xavier laughing at him over a game of chess; Charles Xavier pushing him backwards onto soft sheets, perching over him and unraveling him with just a mere touch of his mind; Charles Xavier telling him about the mutants he had met and studied – Logan Howlett’s considerable regenerative power; Emma Frost’s diamond-hard scowl; Namor McKenzie’s astonishing stamina.

The sun never rose. The tentacles never slackened.

  
  


Magnus woke late in the morning – alone. He winced when he sat up, back stiff, legs aching, arms bruised.

There was no way he would be able to take his breakfast sitting down.

When he had showered and dressed and hidden all evidence of the night’s activity on his body under strategically placed items of clothing, he closed the door to the royal guest room without a second glance at the ruined bed and tried not to show his limp all that much.

The Ruler of Atlantis still smiled in mild amusement as King Magnus of the Monarchy of M joined him in the refectory. Quite unlike Magnus, he was utterly unruffled, gaze wide and alert. Behind him, emerald light filtered through the wide glass window, looking out onto coral banks and kelp forests and the vast endlessness of the blue, blue ocean in the distance.

Frankly, it would have been a spectacular view, had it not been for the horrible pang of pain as Magnus lowered himself into his seat opposite Namor.

“I trust we will come to an agreement in our negotiations today,” the Atlantean said and cut straight to the chase. “Seeing as I offered up quite persuading… _arguments_ last night. To be King of Atlantis takes more than perfect aesthetics after all.”

Magnus floated the silvern teakettle over and poured himself a cuppa. Added sugar, milk. Like Charles would have liked it.

He took a sip. It was good.

“Indeed it does,” he said and looked up. “And yes. I believe we will.” 

**Author's Note:**

> No one's reading this rare pair but still...  
> I hope you liked it! If you did, **please** consider leaving kudos and a comment. It doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just a "+kudos" or a "loved it!" would make my day!!! It means so much to an author to see people take the time to actually type out words instead of simply hitting one (1) button, and it's a very easy way to make us writers - who dedicate so much of our free time to create content for you - happy!


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